


tally what remains

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: & introspective, Canon Compliant, Character Study, During Canon, Gen, Irving-centric, M/M, Mutual Pining, Overuse Of Parentheses, Unresolved Romantic Tension, terror bingo 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23285113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: Irving visits the captain's storeroom to take stock of its inventory. He is joined by Sergeant Tozer; both a blessing and a distraction.
Relationships: Lt John Irving/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	tally what remains

**Author's Note:**

> written for the terror bingo prompt: **storeroom**

It is strange, entering the captain’s storeroom without one of the stewards at his shoulder. Irving feels as though he has entered a domain over which he has no control, no sway; each glimmering bottle nested in its shelf, overlooking stacks of carefully labelled barrels and crates.

(how easy it is for him to imagine the fastidious and dutiful mr jopson, ferrying himself between the tightly packed crates and barrels, the hum of a dockyard song buzzing behind his lips.)

Irving is here with Mr Jopson’s permission and knowledge, but he still feels like a trespasser without the steward’s guidance. He stands in the doorway, a sudden wave of trepidation rising through the soles of his feet into the rest of his body.

“Are you all right, sir?” Sergeant Tozer’s voice startles him.

He nods brusquely, without looking at the other man. With _Terror_ ’s crew lacking, the sergeant was the only one available to assist him in counting their stores below. He unfairly wishes it could have been anyone but Tozer.

(cast sharply from his mind are the evenings on watch, early in the voyage, where the sergeant would walk alongside him on deck, laughter loud and comforting, where irving would find himself slipping into camaraderie with him, with an ease he did not normally possess.)

Ignoring the vague look of worry crossing over Tozer’s face, Irving grips his notebook tighter in his hand and steels himself enough to cross the threshold into the room.

The room spins for a second. (he only had two drinks at lunch — perhaps, no, had it been four?) He places one hand on the wall to steady himself.

Tozer is at his side in an instant. Once he has secured the lantern above their heads, he touches the curve of Irving’s elbow. Irving pulls away with unnecessary force, face coloring when Tozer’s only reaction is a raised eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” Irving insists, straightening to his full height, the crown of his head inches from the ceiling. “This should not take long.”

Indeed, it does not. He instructs Tozer to move crates when needed. He jots down numbers as Tozer relays them to him. It is an awkward dance: the two men maneuvering in the confined space as they try to not step on each other’s toes. An hour trickles by, and Irving writes his final notes, a proper inventory stored within the pages of his book.

He is hardly aware that time has passed at all, and he pauses, staring at the numbers and words before him as they shift about the page, the edges of his vision blurring. His fingers ache from where he pinches his pencil too tightly.

(where does he go — memories of open fields and sunshine, bare feet and ankles itching with wet grass, the scent of wheat and freshly-washed wool?)

When he comes back to himself, he is sitting on one of the crates. Tozer is crouched before him, staring up at him with open concern.

He places his hand on Irving’s knee.

“You went away for a few minutes. Couldn’t say anything to get your attention,” he says, haltingly. “You sure you’re fine?”

Irving tries to throw the feeling that he is drowning, but when he stands, his feet are unsteady on the slanted floor. In an effort to catch his balance, his elbow slams into one of the shelves, dislodging one of the amber-colored bottles.

He winces, bracing himself for the inevitable crash, but Tozer’s reflexes are faster than his own. He shoots forward, one hand at Irving’s bicep, the other wide palm open to catch the bottle in midair.

Irving attempts an apology, but the words freeze in his mouth. He numbly watches as Tozer replaces the bottle in its shelf. The hand lingering on his arm moves to his face. Irving is unable to suppress the shudder that courses through him from that singular, gentle touch.

“Hey, hey,” Tozer says, as though calming a spooked animal. “It’s all right.”

“Do the men know?” Irving asks, his voice quavering.

“Know what?”

“Command might order us to walk, especially if our stores are less than we thought.” Irving shrugs, his arms hanging limp at his sides, hands slapping against his thighs. “Half the tins are putrid, anyway.”

Tozer’s face tightens, jaw working underneath the taut skin.

He mulls over the words before he speaks, “If it comes to that. They’re only rumors, John.”

“I know,” he answers.

Tozer rubs his thumb against Irving’s cheek when another tremor makes him quake. Irving cannot help but lean into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut.

(he knows he should move the sergeant’s hand. _men are lashed for this_ , he remembers.)

With a halfhearted chuckle, Tozer adds, “Hell, the captain can’t even piss standing right now, let alone lead us on an overland march.”

Irving ignores the insult to Crozier, his mind focused only on the numbers in his hand. He jabs at the notebook with his forefinger.

“I’ll take these numbers to command tomorrow.” He sighs, the sound ragged. “Captain Crozier may be ill, but Captain Fitzjames must know the truth. He will decide for us.”

“And there you have it.” Tozer pats his cheek, finally stepping away. “It’s not for you to decide, so why waste your time worrying over it?”

(he misses the rough pull of callouses against his cheek, catching against his beard. it reminds him of moments lost to boyhood, sunday afternoons, in quiet corners of the chapel, where he uncovered another boy’s face with finger and tongue, secret to all but him & him & the eyes of the baleful saint on the wall.)

Irving unfairly wishes that anyone but Tozer had accompanied him to the storerooms.

Tozer stands in the door. He holds the lantern aloft, the light casting a cobweb of shadows across his cheeks.

“Ready to move on, sir?”

(how he longs for more than the memory of hands or lips or forgotten summer days.)

Irving is silent, but he no longer stumbles as he moves, following Tozer to the next room.


End file.
